


eszmélet

by niccals



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Vague references to self harm, first fic in decades and it’s another clone of all my other ones who woulda thot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niccals/pseuds/niccals
Summary: „vasútnál lakom. erre sokvonat jön-megy és el-elnézem,hogy' szállnak fényes ablakoka lengedező szösz-sötétben.igy iramlanak örök éjbenkivilágított nappaloks én állok minden fülke-fényben,én könyöklök és hallgatok.”—alex’s faltering mental health; consciousness is the only tether to life, and the purpose is dulling.





	eszmélet

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [eszmélet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805558) by [niccals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niccals/pseuds/niccals)

you are no longer you. you are but a shell. your insides hollow, your bones worn, your brain battered. your eyes don’t glimmer anymore. your skin gets a sickly grey shade; none of your friends joke about how pale you are.

“you look ill, alex.” they tell you. but you aren’t ill. you are the illness. you think this is how they subliminally try to tell you that they don’t want to be around you anymore.

you become irrational trying to feel something. you act out, you do whatever you think of.

you go out clubbing by yourself until 5 am. you drink so much you’ve blacked out after only a few minutes of arriving. you give some random bloke a blowie in the stall of a restroom; you’re still drunk and you can’t remember if you care enough to feel disgusted with yourself. are you supposed to care?

in the later days of autumn, you sit in the shallow mud of a pond with your clothes still on. the water is freezing, you can’t feel your skin. there are tadpoles swimming around your torso. you hope that someday you will be able to swim with them.

during a saturday evening your mate, will, is over at your flat. he asks you a question but you can not hear him. he is speaking in static coloured coils. 

will repeats himself again. you stare back at him, not making a single movement. will sighs and walks off into another room. you _hate_ yourself.

you aren’t inside of your body. you’re behind a television screen watching this movie play out. you stand up and face the nearest wall. you begin to slam your head against the wall. you go quickly, you can feel your brain being thumped by the force. you feel blood trickle down your forehead. you can not feel the pain, because you are not you.

you can feel hands gripping your arms, but you can not feel the skin where they are gripping you. you manage to smash your head against the wall one last time before you stumble backwards. you wonder if it’s the person behind you that’s pulled you away.

your vision is static and grey. there are splashes of colour. you hope the colour will stay. you haven’t felt magenta in a long time. you are tired of the static and the grey. you can not stand the white noise.

“should i call 999?” you hear the person behind you ask. they sound distant, like they’re underwater. or maybe you’re underwater and they’re above water– it feels like you’re drowning anyways. maybe you deserve to be under the water more than they do anyways.

“i-i don’t know,” you hear a voice say. this one is from above water or below water. maybe they have some mud stuck in their throat. this makes you sad. you hope they feel better soon.

you can not tell when it is that you’ve fallen asleep but only when you’ve awaken. you wonder if the voices were spirits. or witches. or spirits of witches. you tell yourself you’re being silly. those are your mates. you probably scared them half to death, falling asleep without warning. you will punish yourself later for being so inconsiderate.

the ceiling is black. the walls are black and so is the air. you know no sight, you know no feeling. your limbs are numb and you can not move.

a door opens then. it squeaks loudly and your mind tells you to look over to see who’s there but your mind also isn’t letting you move your eyes. your eyes stay staring at the ceiling. you hear footsteps but you still do not look.

“alex?” someone calls. you think it’s george. you don’t muster up the energy to respond; it’s futile.

the light suddenly comes on and the once black room was now illuminated by a light that is too bright. you want to tell the person who turned the light on that you prefer the lamp instead; you can’t feel your heartbeat and you can’t feel your eyes so you decide that it does not matter. you can feel your head, though, a throbbing and stinging sensation. it hurts, really fucking bad, but you bear it because you deserve it.

“he’s awake,” the maybe-george-person calls. you hear another set of footsteps. you begin to wonder how many people are in your house now. you want to be alone, you want them to get out.

“christ, george, he looks _dead_.” you hear the other voice say. the first voice was george, and so this one must be will. unless it’s not will. then you will have to pay for being wrong.

you gain control of your body, and with a burst of energy you sit up. you hunch over, elbows resting on your knees and stare down at the navy duvet beneath you. silence is the air. you wish to scream to fill the vacant space but your breathing is already loud enough. you will not scream.

your breaths get louder. your heartbeat too; your limbs get loud and your cells get loud and your brain gets so loud it’s hard to keep the skin attached to your bones. you don’t know how you’ve not burst yet.

you move your head, your skin is screaming when george reaches over to lay his hand on your arm. you don’t want to see your skin cry and wail, you are tired of the sadness everywhere._ why can’t your skin smile?_

you realise you’ve been thrown back into the darkness again. the air is black again now. your skin is still screaming and no time has passed. you still feel a gentle hand on your arm. you want to shake it off but you find that your muscles are stiff and you’re so out of breath you’re struggling to fill your lungs.

you resent your heart for being so loud in your chest. you resent the hand on your arm the white voices that are swirling behind your skull. you don’t know if you should tell them they are not but a blur of vibrations because that might make them sad. they think that their voices are big, bold and arial. you wish not to make them sad– they shouldn’t have to feel that as well.

you’re thrown back into reality. you’re no longer in a cramped metal box; no longer are you wading through empty space.

you are planted firmly on your bed. you are not moving, your bones squeak as you involuntarily tremble. your muscles are sore and you wish you’d chosen a better position to sit in.

beside you a person sits. you think that the person is will because the hand is cold and you can sense the yellow. you feel embarrassed for him and for yourself. how pathetic it is to have emotions. especially in front of your mates. happy is all they know of you, but you know not an ounce of happy.

your breathing returns again. your heart shuts up and so does your brain. then your nerves, then your vessels and then your cells.

you wake up again. you are confused, as you begun to believe you were dead for the short moments before you fell into black. you know now that you are in your room. you’re alone, finally. you thought the solitude would be better, that you’d feel safer alone. you don’t, though.

you pick up on how cold your duvet it. you see the dull grey of the walls only visible by the remaining bits of light shining in through your window. you feel cold, you feel hollow, you feel so alone.

you wrap yourself in your duvet, rolling out of bed and beginning to walk. you don’t know if anyone is even home or if they’ll judge you and call you clingy.

in the lounge is where george sits on the couch. he immediately looks up at you as soon as your enter the room. it’s silent and awkward and you just know that it’s your fault.

you sit down in the sofa, breaking eye contact with george who you feel staring holes into you. you glance over at him and see water pooling in his eyes. what have you done?

“alex?” he whispers, voice wobbling and unsteady. you stare at him in response, pleading with your brain to make your mouth move to respond to him. it doesn’t though, and you just end up letting out a quiet and embarrassing sound, which makes you flush red. you twist the skin on the back of your hand until it feels like it will tear.

george’s eyes bore into your hands. when you notice he’s watching you twist your skin, you feel the same pain your felt on your hand in your heart. you briefly wonder if george also felt the hurt in his heart. maybe not the same hurt as you, though. all you are is ashamed.

“alex,” george mumbles again. “we’re– we’re gonna get you help.”

your brain fizzles and you are so mad that you see red. you don’t respond to him, you just stare back down at your hand. you grab your left index finger and pull. you pull harder, and harder, and harder until eventually there’s a clicking sound and rush of pain.

you pop the joint back into place, causing another wave of excruciating pain to wash over your hand and up your veins. you don’t have to look to know george is staring.

“don’t want help. don’t need it.” you grumble. your voice is unsteady. “i don’t need it, i don’t need it, i don’t need it.” you hammer in the point.

your voice becomes numb to your ears and time writhes away through the cracks of reality. when you come to you are still repeating the same phrase, except now george is closer. he’s kneeling on the ground, arms plastered firmly across your thighs.

you begin to cry. it’s the first time in months and felt like it was such a long time coming. yet, somehow, it was still unexpected to you. you are scared of your own emotions. you are terrified of _you_. you’re not alright, you’re not even you.

“help, alex, we’re going to get you help,” george chokes out, and you notice he’s crying. “you’re gonna get better.”

“okay.” you breathe out, breath hitching. you rest your hands timidly atop george’s who remain on your lap. he pulls you into a hug then. 

the hug is at an awkward angle, and it’s bone crushing, but it’s warm. it’s never lonely and it’s your best friend. it’s safety and it’s optimism; it’s knowing things still have a chance to improve. even if you are so achingly hollow, even if you are struggling to keep your heart beating and even if you are no longer you.

—

_vasútnál lakom. erre sok_  
_vonat jön-megy és el-elnézem,_  
_hogy' szállnak fényes ablakok_  
_a lengedező szösz-sötétben._  
_igy iramlanak örök éjben_  
_kivilágított nappalok_  
_s én állok minden fülke-fényben,_  
_én könyöklök és hallgatok._

**Author's Note:**

> poem is ‘eszmélet (12)’ by attila józsef
> 
> ok i um tried to make this more abstract so hopefully it’s comprehensible to other people n not just me. anyways i’m going tf to bed bye bye


End file.
